Uhura's Harem
by Thalaba
Summary: Mirrorverse! Sexual content, violence, etc. Uhura's time as a student, moving on to her first assignment and then towards the ISS Enterprise.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes and Warnings: I still haven't found a satisfactory way to summarize this story other than the fact that I enjoy writing it and I hope that you'll enjoy reading it. There are multiple/various pairings present of both the het and slash variety so if that doesn't float your boat maybe this story isn't for you. In this chapter there is an instance of attempted rape and as the story goes on there'll be various examples of violent behaviour--would you expect anything less from the Mirrorverse?**

1

Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't joined in with the catty little bitches when they accused him of being too old for Starfleet, that he wouldn't be able to keep up with the real men—not that Nyota Uhura believed for one second that the skinny pieces of blond fluff had ever known a Real Man in their lives, otherwise their daddies would have informed them long ago that 'Yeoman' was only the official title for lickspittles and whores and anyone going through that track got what they deserved. Maybe it was the fact that it was none of her business to begin with but she had gone out of her way to trip the lead heckler while they were passing in the hall. Neither foot nor hand moved of it's own accord in Starfleet, there were no accidents; and yet Nyota didn't stop to share the familiar "You owe me" looks with the other cadet. He didn't thank her either, not that she expected him to. She may have brought them more trouble than a few insults were worth in the long run; that ultra tanned cadet could be hiding some powerful friends behind all that hairspray and cheap perfume, and Nyota could be facing more action than she really wanted at the moment.

For whatever reason Nyota may have chosen to physically tell that girl to shut up (boredom being amongst the top when she lay down to sleep that night), she couldn't understand _his_ at all for hauling that security goon off her later on that week. It was crazy enough to believe he'd hypo-ed the cocksucker before any penetration had occurred—on her side at least; one of Nyota's daggers had got the bastard twice in his meaty side before sheer mass and gravity had taken over—but instead of leaving her to her own devices the older cadet had pushed the goon over and offered Nyota a hand up. There was skin not her own under her nails. Her bottom lip was split rather badly, blood rolling down her chin and smeared heavily across her puffy cheek, which wasn't helped when the man boldly reached out to tilt her head this way and that. Medical track. Fucking great. Her uniform was torn up over her hip and as Nyota shrugged the man's attentions off she could feel again the sting of scratch wounds on her inner thighs.

But she was still standing and the goon wasn't so points to her.

"Have anyone to help ya with that?" He gestured lazily at her would-be assailant and Nyota crossed her arms. It was a stupid question because it implied an assurance of trust and when did cadets ever have that. Anyone she could have possibly messaged would have had this bit of knowledge to hang over her head for the rest of her Goddamn life. She raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose you could fuck him up as he would have me and then he wouldn't be so willing to talk." His responding chuckle was full of gravel smoothed by years of drinking. By his accent she would have guessed whiskey. Or bourbon.

"I like my partners breathin' darlin'."

"He is."

"No he ain't."

2

Under most circumstances no sane person would ever enter Starfleet laboratories. The scurrying mad scientists that survived in those sanitized rooms were always on look-out for more experimental materials and weren't in the habit of asking nicely, but Leonard McCoy—that was what her partner in crime had introduced himself, as if names didn't have power in the Empire—had refused to bring supplies into the winding mazes of the Linguistics department, his own colourful descriptions of her track peers enough to curl her mouth painfully, like he had given her a present, and so Nyota had set out with only his word (not a promise) that the labs would be mostly empty at 0600 and that with her boots she'd probably be the most dangerous thing there anyway.

She didn't respond to his flattery. What would it get her?

He was, however, found exactly where he said he would be, dermal regenerator at the ready. Nyota watched him watch her from the doorway, watched him watch her take a flask out of her regulation jacket and tip it back, throat moving. Then again. It burned her lip far worse than sliding down her esophagus and she had to wipe away a line that dribbled down her chin, but it would have been incredibly rude to give McCoy a drink without first proving it wasn't poisoned. She left it on the counter and moved over to the bio bed, doors swishing closed behind her.

"He sure knew how to piss you off."

It was true. Until Nyota had stabbed him the goon had been more concerned with destroying her mouth. The attempted rape was secondary to making sure she'd never form consonants again and Nyota was lucky his one good hit hadn't been perfect and that she still had her teeth. Blondie had done her research it seemed. They didn't shoot you or dig out your heart or cu off your hands or lobotomize you in Linguistics; the preferred methods of ladder-climbing ambition was to cut out your rival's tongue, to drug them and pull out their front teeth, to slice their smiles from ear to ear. In effect it was to perform a mental as well as a physical torture, to leave your enemy with all their knowledge but inadequate to use it to perfection. Few cadets would willingly put their livelihoods in the hands of Medical personnel. . .but here she was. Nyota's fear of McCoy's scalpel was decidedly less than her desire for the new Flagship, the Enterprise. She had to be the best. A split lip wasn't going to stop her. She imagined a lost tongue wouldn't either.

But she wasn't stupid and Nyota hadn't closed her eyes as he worked, hadn't taken them off his face, relentlessly watched his ticks and blinks. He wasn't significantly older than she, perhaps thirty to her twenty two? His eyes were sharp with tired lines already at the corners that spoke of many late nights and whatever baggage that had brought him to Starfleet when the mortality rate of the average cadet was just less than that of a shipboard officer. Not that Nyota had ever considered herself average. Maybe Leonard McCoy didn't think so either. Light brown hair and insistent eyebrows. Fit, not slim or sleek.

"At least I know what to expect next time." It would be worse and there would be more to fight off. He chuckled with a drawling grin.

"I have a friend in command track takin' care of that. He enjoys stupid women."

Nyota's clear brown gaze instantly narrowed into hot pin pricks of anger and suspicion—and not just at the laughable idea that he would claim someone as 'friend.' She didn't want to owe any more favours, in fact as far as she was concerned they were a blank slate as it related to who owed whom, and to get involved with command track was to hand your ass over on a silver platter. They were there for a _reason_ after all; those assholes never forgot a favour. "Don't frown darlin', I could send this laser into your upper palate and then where would ya be?" Medical track. Fucking great.

When he was finished no one would have thought her features any different (which was good for him) with the exception for her cheek. The regenerator couldn't help the bruise there, it would have to fade on it's own. McCoy hadn't lowered his machine, in fact it was held loosely by four fingers while his thumb rubbed back and forth over her lower lip, over his handiwork. He looked smug. "Plump an' perfect." And then his free hand moved warm and heavy onto her leg, fingernails slipping just under the hem of her skirt. "Will I take care of those as well?" Nyota smiled silkily, the dagger she kept hidden up her sleeve suddenly resting comfortably alongside his jugular.

"Why not? But be gentle. I'm a lady after all."

3

Leonard McCoy had an oral fixation.

Nyota realized this after she decided they were going to have sex—(in her dorm only, he was to leave directly afterwards, and if she thought he was packing any rope she was going to gauge his eyes out)—when the long necked bottles and toothpicks finally made sense. Sucking, licking, swallowing, tonguing, biting, kissing. As long as his mouth was doing something Len was satisfied and that worked fine for Nyota specifically as the cadet was rather talented at using it. He didn't need rope to restrain her though; Nyota's own stockings worked just as well. He was fast. He'd gotten one wrist tied to the leg of her bed before she'd slashed his bicep. There was a panting pause where she should have done more, should have stabbed the motherfucker in the groin (daggers were her specialty and she had always been an attentive student); instead Nyota watched Len watch her while he leant over to lick the wet flat blade of her knife.

It didn't take long to get back in the moment: legs wrapped around his waist with his freckled arms wrapped hard around hers, sitting on her bed with a breast sucked tightly between his teeth and her one free hand clamped vice like in his hair. Thrusting and thrusting and thrusting.

She met his 'friend' purely by accident, picking out the swaggering bright-eyed peacock as he flirted with a beautiful red haired female during a break in an impromptu Field Tacticles only because he smelled of the same cologne that often clung fitfully to Len's uniforms and underwear. Roommates? It was too odd to think about the man who sucked her clit using those same skills on this _boys_ cock. Nyota openly stared, scrutinized, until the command track cadet looked up and stared back, quirking a grin on his pouty mouth before he clearly recognized her (through Len's descriptions most likely) and the grin turned salacious. He winked and Nyota turned back to face the instructor once again.

James Tiberius Kirk, Captain Christopher Pike's Goddamned Golden Boy.

Or whipping boy, depending on whom one asked.

Fucking great.

He had the gall to grab her arm after class.

"You're going to be my communications officer one day Uhura." He actually smiled when he said it, with teeth as white as a shark's.

"I'm going to be _someone's_ communications officer Kirk," she answered with a sharp jab of her nail. If one didn't demand their personal space it quickly got taken away. "So I guess you're half-right."

He walked away with a very confidant chuckle and Nyota didn't have to speak with him for another two years. She tried to avoid Len for that long as well then, but his mouth was more persistent.


	2. Chapter 2

4

She does it out of spite, there's no other way to describe it and that both frustrates and terrifies Nyota. Why should she want to? She is her own woman, belongs to no one, and the thought that in fucking Hiraku Sulu she will somehow anger Len is beyond ridiculous and makes her feel ugly inside even while the man behind her makes her body ripple.

He's good. He's lithe and slim, fast, smooth. Handsome. He wanted her to suck him off without giving any intention of reciprocating and so they found a suitable compromise in this position before Nyota slit his throat. Hiraku had smiled at her daggers, but the man unaccountably had no scars which helped her decide that he wouldn't appreciate any bloodletting. Pity. But she wanted a fuck not a fight in any event. One of his hands trace up and down her spine, counting off the vertebrate, gliding over the bumps and contours; the other is almost too firm on her hip, angling her torso and controlling the rhythm. Nyota muses on this with a wry grin directed at his pillows. Yes, they are in his room and that was probably her second mistake.

He's a pilot—wants to be a pilot, wants to helm the Empire's greatest warships and create a name for himself outside of his family which she finds hilarious since that name got him into Starfleet in the first place. Sulu comes from a long line of officers (middlemen of no great distinction, Nyota could throw in his face if she were feeling particularly capricious) and can name-drop with the best of them. He has credibility and an apparently defined future that she finds equally interesting and presumptuous; no one knows what tomorrow will bring and these days it is foolish to guess. Arrogance, pride: she has her own emotions to deal with.

There were candles already lit when she entered, fat stubs of red and green illuminated with a small blue flame though a mechanical wick, and Nyota wasn't foolish enough to believe they were present for the sensual, enticing air they created. Much like her stockings they serve another purpose and she jerks forward harshly, violently, and hisses like a cat in heat when the first dribble of scorching wax hits her back.

"Fuck!" It's painful and the sing doesn't fade right away, forcing Nyota to curl her fingers into the sheets but not for the reason she expected to tonight.

"That's good, pretty," Hiraku murmurs, pouring another hot ribbon just below her shoulder blades. He may be trying to hide his humour in his panting but her aural sensitivity is better than that and she frowns. Getting off is one thing but _humiliation_ is not a kink to which Nyota Uhura subscribes. At least not when she's the object of it. He's lucky her hair is up out of the way, pulling tightly on her skull, and Nyota concedes this is why he asked so politely she style it that way for their rendezvous and not simply because she has such delicious cheekbones. He's deep inside, thumping something on point, and it irks her when the idea hits that's she has been spoiled by Len's tongue. Len isn't needed or wanted here and Nyota quickly gets her elbows under her, forcefully pushing back against Sulu's hips. Alone she could have come three times already and this tease is getting old.

"That stamina of yours is in dire need of reconditioning," she sneers, rolling her eyes as he sits down on her thighs, effectively stilling her movements.

"I enjoy observing what is mine," he grunts and spanks her ass with a sharp smack, but it is the sudden bite of burning metal onto her right posterior that sends Nyota screaming in indignation. She thrashes and fingers wrap around her neck, pushing her down. "Steady now. This won't take long." He's _branding_ her?! The fucking prick thinks he has the right to burn his name into her skin?! She screeches a Klingon swear into the simulated cotton fibre of his pillow and using her knee in a swift shove rolled them both off his bed. He's still inside her and it hurts them both to land on the floor, but Nyota's on top and jumps up first, pushing pain to the background and focusing on the red rage clouding her vision. Calm, cool, and collected is how to survive but right now more is called for and with one stamp she hopes she has broken Hiraku's ankle. It's doubtful.

5

Janice Rand is the type of roommate she is, if not pleased, satisfied to have. The woman is smart but not in the ways Nyota is smart; there is little competition between them on that front which makes sleeping in each other's presence bearable and moderately safe. They do not run in the same social circles—or what passes as social in the Academy—therefore there is no need for pointed insults or underhanded attempts at cutting each other's self-confidence, self-esteem, or self-reliance to shreds. They can exist within these four walls for this limited span of time, perhaps not pleasantly but civilly at least, and thus when Nyota enters half-naked, tussled and ruffled and smelling of sex and sweat, her features warring with apoplexy, Janice silently offers to remove the dried wax from her dark skin, using one of Nyota's creams to soothe heat-stricken patches of flesh. None of this will be spoken of again come morning.

"What does it say?" Like she doesn't know.

"Pardon?"

"My **ass.** What does it say?"

"Oh." There's a snort after a moment. "That's a bad tattoo you know. I could have—"

"What does it—"

"Nothing! A scratch really. A poorly crossed 'T'? An 'X'?"

Nyota lifts her chin and blinks hard.

"An 'X'? Like X marks the spot?"

Janice doesn't answer and it's just as well. She'll make an excellent Captain's woman one day, with all that icy hair that falls down to her knees when it's not wrapped up in those ridiculous geometric designs and that head full of logistics and home cooked recipes. Rand's a decent boxer as well. Not gorgeous, but pretty and useful and experienced enough to passively accept the kind of deviance that happens out in the black where the lines of humanity have blurred so much they're practically erased. Nyota can accept it as well; it's not a reason to slice Janice open.

"He did it to Chekov," the other cadet mentions once they are finished and Nyota has moved to her side of the room to slip on a sleep shirt. "Carved his initials right into that kid." She doesn't turn around, just rolls her eyes and gets into bed.

"Pavel isn't a kid. Not with those eyes." She knows better than to use modifiers but the unsaid _crazy_ is present in her tone. And it's true, Pavel Chekov is three steps away from bug-eyed crazy: a genius pushed ahead in his studies, set to graduate the same time as she and Janice and Kirk and Sulu and Len, owning the delicate face of choir boy which could be believed if not for his eyes. Laughing at everything and nothing with psychopathic detachment; Nyota had thought the young man got his kicks screwing the navigation simulators. "I would bet twenty credits he knew what he was doing."

And she hadn't. Fucking great.

"Maybe not twenty credits, but an abstract and outline for Archer's communal survey should do it. A grade of 83 percent would be good."

There was no reason to pretend ignorance to what Janice meant. Favours and silence.

Quid pro quo.

"I can do that."

It didn't matter. Nyota's assignment was already delivered and it ranked a near 99. She was going to graduate at the top of her field. As if there had ever been any doubt.

6

There were thick medical restraints around both her wrists this time, her back arched over the spick-and-span bio bed while Len was giving it to her with tongue and teeth and lips, his usual harsh stubble (as if his face was so cantankerous it wouldn't allow a full growth of beard) rubbing carpet burns on her legs, her new uniform skirt bunched around her waist. They had survived training, four years of growing and re-growing eyes in the back of their heads and learning what it really meant to be a member of Starfleet. They had come together to say goodbye in the only way they could—she, disliking the dark eager circles under Len's eyes finally taking notice of how singularly silver and sterile his med lab. Stainless steel? He had become a collector of ancient primitive medical instruments it appeared and it was surprisingly hard to convince herself that he didn't fit in perfectly with the rest of his mad scientist brethren. It was the track he had chosen wasn't it? To have complete knowledge of biological systems, Terran and other, ultimately in order to play God at the Emperor's whim? Just as she had processed more than three quarters of known languages, dialects, cultures, simply to help bring about their submission to the greater force that was the Empire?

That's what it was all about.

That and the Enterprise.

Which she hadn't received.

Four years of. . .and she'd been passed over.

The wet sounds from between her legs are more arousing than the bonds that hold her in place and Nyota automatically raises her hips again, pushing her core into Len's face where he had buried himself after pocketing her torn panties. His thick freckled arms are using her own legs as leverage, hands moving sporadically to press her abdomen and the sleek muscles beneath. He's pushing her—this doesn't feel like a goodbye, in some sense, with his rough sounds and feverish act, it feels like a punishment—and Nyota doesn't know how much more she can take. Nipples tight and aching for some attention but everything's been below the waist and he's forcing another climax when she'd soaked already; she can stop this and it would be vindictive (and true), but what choice does she have? She could be dead next year from where Starfleet it sending her, transcribing coded intelligence from Romulan data waves out on a barren moon on the edges of the Neutral Zone; there's no point in dragging out _whatever this has been_ between them. This would be the end of her mourning.

"You must. . ." she swallowed to catch her breath, speaking up. "You must get a lot of practice with Kirk to have a mouth that talented. I'm surprised he lets you out of your cage."

He stops licking, pulling away slowly, and it takes every square inch of will power not to sigh at how her juices coat his chin and lips, not to ask him to keep going when it's beginning to get numb down there anyway. His tongue comes out to sweep, tasting her on him and that's just worse; one of his eyes narrowing, the other like to spread neon searchlights up over her prone form and visible portions of glistening, warm brown skin. There is a tick in the corner of Len's nose and he's not happy with her remark. He proves it with a nip to her mound, right through her wet curls and hard on the bone. Nyota kicks him. "What the hell Len!"

He moves to the sink, pushing on the water and leaning down to splash some on his face. Nyota rolls over and shimmies off the bed, moving quickly and close to reduce the strain on her stretched arms. There's a way to get the restraints off if could just focus and stop cursing the world that demanded she be as she is without giving the reward for such behaviour. She's angry and—and _sad_ and that's so useless because nobody cares. The water shuts off. "I hope the five year mission is everything you want it to be," she sneers as she tugs at her bonds. It's unworthy of her but it just pops out. He's the most talented cadet to graduate from medical track in years so of course he's being sent to keep Captain Pike alive and well; anything could happen as the Empire's flagship soars through the galaxy and that sadistic prick is going to need the best. And Jim!—oh it's almost funny—Jim Kirk goes wherever Christopher Pike goes, so they'll all be able to enjoy the war together!

Her thighs are uncomfortable and sticky now and Nyota just wants to go get a sonic and sleep before her transport leaves tomorrow. Janice has already left for parts unknown; maybe she can allow a little emotion to leak out when she lays down.

The arm that encircles her below her covered breasts isn't comforting or alluring. It jerks Nyota back against Len's body, his shirt wet and the face pressed to hers still smelling of her own release. She struggles until the cold blade of a scalpel rests at the dip just under her chin, which obviously freezes her in place better than any words could have. Maybe he's sick of _this_ as well and has decided a permanent solution is in order. It would be so easy, a flick of his wrist, and he has experience disposing of bodies—more so since their first encounter—therefore she would pose no problems.

Maybe she just isn't as good at keeping her opinions to herself as she had thought.

"Think I could put my mark on ya too?" Len asks in a growling drawl and she feels a pinch and knows he's nicked her. "Sorry 'bout that. I jus' thought since someone's already claimed that ass, maybe I could keep your mouth." He slides his hand up and if she looks down far enough Nyota can see her own blood on the edge of his metal. "After all darlin'. . .I put it back together. An' ya won't really need it where you're goin', jus' those sensitive ears." He huffs hot on her neck and Nyota's earlobe is pulled between his teeth, pulled and bitten. She keeps her gaze on the blade hovering by her mouth but soon finds herself pushed forward, ninety degrees to the bio-bed with Len another blanket at her back. She has never told him how much she enjoys the press and mass of his body above her and now certainly isn't the time, not when if the good doctor isn't careful he could stab her in the face, slice her cheeks, poke her eye, or, as he has implied, slit her smile wide open. Nyota can feel his erection pressed against her backside, through his practice scrubs still stained with what will not come out in the refresher. He's been a busy boy.

They remain like that for a while, minutes with Len breathing steadily into her covered shoulder and spread ponytail, Nyota's waist barely cushioned from the edge of the bio bed by her bunched skirt. He doesn't gyrate or thrust suggestively, and it's a torrid sort of intimacy since they have never slept together nor ever embraced but to incite passion. He doesn't hover over her body but covers her fully, legs on the outsides of her own, and he doesn't remove the scalpel from Nyota's sight.

Finally—finally!—Len reaches forward, chest pressing tighter against her back, and opens the restraints he had attached as easily as he could have slit her throat. His hands push down upon the bed near her face and then his heat and his body is moving away. Gone. Nyota counts to three before pushing herself upright as well and tugs down her skirt with hands that she will not allow to shake. He says nothing as she leaves, and even if the words could come Nyota doesn't have to say goodbye. It's all too obvious.


	3. Chapter 3

7

She is. . . amused by Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott.

He is her commanding officer: short, balding, and lacking in true malevolent grace except in his attitudinal contempt for the enormous Andorian contingent that scurry like so many Terran ants through the freezing halls at everyone's beck and call. It took less than ten minutes for them both to understand she could mutilate him easily and thus they quickly reached an accord. He is incredibly adept at his job however, especially as it concerns the mistreatment of station replicators—the only machines to operate at peak efficiency, even the atmospheric communication beacons (the whole point for the Empire to place staff on this wasteland of a moon) are full of static, their components in need of radiation repair which Starfleet apparently can't afford—and does not personally do anything to convince Nyota that assassination would be a viable option. She does not wish to be commander of this pathetic rock and so Scotty can keep it with her blessings.

Within Nyota's stomach is a spiny ball of gluttonous rage; as each day passes, every hour she spends seated at a cold desk listening to what could quite possibly be scrambled Romulan pornography or—on good days—obsolete military codes that she'll have to modernize before finalizing any report, every second where she knows the Enterprise is out there experiencing he galaxy without her, the ball solidifies, spikes harden and tear at her until the shaming urge to actually _cry_ comes upon her and she has to go beyond her allotted time in the stations gym pounding the shit out of reconstructed exercise equipment. A confidant woman, a strong woman, an invincible woman: her doubt is becoming oppressive. Nyota spends much of her free time cloistered in her tiny private chamber examining her transcripts, rereading notes from professors on her assignments and conduct and determination and trying to decipher any inkling that would have said she _would not_ have been placed on the flagship, would not have been rewarded for her fucking perfection! Years wasted and-and pain! And there's a goddamned brand on her ass that she can't get rid of—She deserved the Enterprise and here she is on a fucking ball of ice—

8

Nyota receives a message from Jim Kirk five months into her 'banishment.'

It is her first piece of personal mail since leaving the Academy with her mother's disappointed congratulations and Nyota can't comprehend how the bastard even got it through to her let alone _why_ he would even want to communicate with a now second rate Ensign. _To gloat,_ she finally decides, playing the message late at night with her door triple locked and a dagger held tight for security. Scotty could probably get through if he wished but Nyota doesn't think he would; he has a nice face but she doesn't want him and or some strange reason Nyota believes he respects her choice.

The image on her screen is a wash of greys and blacks and slightly grainy, as if Kirk recorded himself in the dark and the only light is coming from his own screen. All she sees for a few moments are fingers--_He's positioning his vidscreen_--and then there's Jim's infuriatingly grinning face. She furrows her brow, watching him with suspicion. There's a mark—no, a cut below his left eye. It looks old, hasn't been regenerated. Kirk's voice is a laughing whisper, but his eyes. . .Nyota has a feeling he's about to spew venom.

_"Hi beautiful. Now who woulda thunk this? You, out there in dullsville, picking over whatever scraps the Romulans decide to send out. And me,"_ he made a little gesture, a snap of his wrist, _"living large on the greatest ship the Empire has ever built, hunting out the scum of the galaxy for the glory of the Emperor."_ Nyota hears a sound and realizes it is her own teeth grinding. She wants to blind those bright blue knowing eyes, feel the gel squeeze between her fingers. _"Well __**I**__ woulda thought it. Not everyone has my discriminating taste though. Sorry I didn't get a chance to say goodbye but ya know, I'm special, I'm a busy boy, places to go people to see."_ His tongue appears, running back and forth over the sharp edge of his top teeth. _"A part of me wants you to be punished, to see this as consequences for your actions and then go hurt yourself afterwards. It's probably a good thing that you're not part of my crew right now."_

"You don't have a crew, you arrogant prick," she hisses at the screen knowing it was useless and unable to help herself anyway. Her lips are a tight line.

_". . .the other part?"_ he shrugged and stepped back, showing off a toned bare torso. There is a dark mark over one clavicle that could be a shadow but Nyota doubts it; she sits up on her cot. What the hell is Jim Kirk doing sending her recordings of his naked white ass? Punishment? Well it isn't as if Nyota ever sought it out before and she's convinced his ego is big enough to believe that seeing without touching will cause her pain. There's a quick flash of light on the screen—a door swishing open—then the greys return and Nyota has to blink her eyes back into awareness. Someone has entered Kirk's room or closet or hiding place and for a moment Nyota hopes it's Captain Pike come to administer his brand of 'quality time' on his upstart Golden Boy. Of course, that would not have made any sense if this was to be **her** punishment.

Leonard McCoy's presence makes sense though.

All thirty six minutes.

Seeing. But not touching.

Over the next seven months Kirk furtively sends her nine more messages (the frequency is impossible to trace which makes sense if it really is coming from the flagship) that she attempts to not watch, to destroy in some manner before inevitably slipping the disk into the vidscreen and observing Kirk and Len fuck and kiss and lick and possibly make love in a variety of ways. She aims her phaser at several of them, places the thin disk on the floor of her quarters and raises the setting to 'Kill.' She puts her finger on the button and aims and cannot follow though because as much as this psychological torture hurts Kirk's messages are her only contact with civilization. . .Kirk's messages are her only link to Len.

So Nyota has to watch.

And by the time the seventh one arrives Nyota wants to watch.

She sees the long line of Kirk's spine and his multitude of scars and finds herself wanting to ask questions—wanting to poke the snake just to see what it will do of course, but also wants to watch his eyes explain what Nyota can probably guess. She dislikes him but it gets harder to truly despise Jim Kirk when he no longer begins his messages with conversation. He's never free of some cut or bruise on his face, somewhere very visible. He's surviving, and she begins to believe this is less a 'consequence for actions rendered' when after eight recordings of unedited one-angle sex tapes she receives what in comparison is a masterpiece of clips of Len's arching body and freckled arms and rough knees, and there's Kirk's mouth as well—he has a pretty mouth—and his ass on repeat so often it actually makes her laugh. No blatant cock shots but Nyota figures that would be to incongruous; Len obviously does not realize their acts are being recorded, he never looks at the camera (Jim has) and never _not_ looks either. They rarely talk above asking for a drink and anything else is spoken too quietly for Nyota to hear. She can strongly assume that Pike does not know about these sessions either.

There's a pause at the end of the ninth message and then Kirk appears in close-up, face scrubbed, a yellowed bruise upon his forehead.

_"Hi beautiful,"_ and he gives her a wink. _"Happy anniversary to us both, huh? One whole year out of the academy and we're both still kicking. I have my goals Uhura. You're still going to be my Communications Officer one day."_ He's crazy for mentioning such things. He's been lucky—they both have—that these messages haven't been intercepted by someone of a more mercenary ilk; his words are treasonous, no one actively talks about being a captain until another one is dead. _"I hope that moon you're on hasn't frozen your tongue, we need a few talented ones around here."_ She laughs but it's a soft empty sound. A year and she's yet to receive word of transfer or promotion—the former icing on the cake, the latter worth more than it's weight in gold at this point. For now she's stuck and she's learned that word from an experienced man: Scotty's been here for years.

_"You're too smart to waste away out there, but I'm sure you already know that."_ He pauses, simply looking straight at her, and Nyota pauses with him, not liking his tone. They weren't associates at the Academy, weren't in the same track, didn't socialize with each other. His tone is different. . .compassionate. It's uncomfortable. Kirk's voice dips even lower. _"I'm sure you know that's the only reason you're out there and not in here._ He_ knew you'd figure it out."_

Nyota shifts on her bed. Emphasis? Kirk's eyes have purpose and for now it's not to entice. She was too. . ._smart_ for the Enterprise? How the hell does that happen?

_"Keep trucking Ensign. People like us, we don't believe in no-win scenarios."_

The message ends with a small beep but Nyota replays it twice more, forwarding to Kirk's comments each time. What does he mean? And who does Kirk refer to? He's obviously trying to impart something but the spiny ball in Nyota's stomach comes to life at the most logical thought that Jim Kirk has been playing her for a fool all these months, lulling her into a sense of. . .intimacy? compatriotism?. . .all in the effort to build her hopes against one particular theoretical figure who kept her away from the Enterprise? To mark her as a conspirator as revenge for insulting Len? Kirk isn't referring to Len—after recording their interludes, saying the doctor's name wouldn't cause much trouble. And it's not like McCoy had that sort of clout to keep her off the Enterprise's roster—

But Pike would have.

Captain Christopher Pike could have made damn sure Nyota didn't step one pointed toe upon his jewel of a ship. . .But why?

9

She abandoned her academy transcripts for Enterprise fodder. Pick-ups, drop-offs, full crew rosters on all decks: anything easily accessible was found through general Starfleet reports, all the t's crossed and i's dotted so to speak. There would be nothing incriminating there as well Nyota knew, but it was an excellent place to start for someone who had not been involved in a years worth of ship's activities. Excessive commonalities or extreme variations in routine, that's what she was ultimately looking for, but such information was difficult if not impossible to come by from her communications station, and while she had taken all the required academy courses in computer proficiency Nyota was hardly an expert. It would require more than her skills to gather the sort of intel she sought, and again she had to wonder why Kirk had dropped this secret (if indeed it was true) in her lap. Being Pike's Boy had surely garnered him privileges over the years. . .perhaps he was tired of the cost of such attention and was now looking for a way out. If that were the case then Pike would have to be involved with something particularly anathema to the objectives of the Empire if Kirk hoped to have him court-martialled or stripped of rank, and did Nyota really wish to be involved with something of that magnitude when it didn't truly connect to her own ambitions? _Kirk said it did. If Pike is the only reason I didn't get the Enterprise then I'm damn sure going to find out why!_

Of course metaphorically stabbing your commanding officer in the back wasn't the only way to get rid of them. Was Jim Kirk—boyishly, infuriatingly smug Jim Kirk—planning on _disposing_ of one of the most brutal men in Starfleet? Nyota sits back from her desk in quiet shock, quickly aligning her posture and adjusting her earpiece at the notice she was getting from the Andorians nearby. They know her routine has changed—from a woman who has spent the majority of her free time ensconced inside her cabin to someone who regularly needs reminders of shift changes, Nyota's manner has shifted too suddenly to be understood and she curses her lack of subtlety.

She curses again once the tenth message comes through and instead of a bedroom of Kirk's grinning mug she sees Leonard McCoy stationed in front of a brilliant sterile wall—undoubtedly Enerprise's sickbay—a glass of amber liquid on the table before him. _Fucking great._ But the swear lacks passion and she knows it. It feels good to see him in any event. He's wearing CMO blues and they suit him to a tee, but he's unshaven and looks as if he's already taken some time to drink before sitting down to speak. Not that Len's speaking at the moment however; right now he's watching his glass and grimacing. When he finally does open his mouth the voice that comes forth is the same smooth rolling gravel she remembers.

_"Jim told me he's been sendin' you these li'l videos. Become a pair of goddamned holo buddies ain't'cha."_ She watches him suck his upper lip into his mouth, scratch his chin. She isn't sorry she's watched them, can't be now. Guilt is useless after all and if she was a saint then she would have destroyed the messages upon receiving them. If she was a saint she would not have lived this long. _"Can't say I'm too pleased about it darlin', you and Jim bein' cheats an' all for one—"_ This makes her grin softly but she cannot be distracted. Len has paused to clear his throat and only then does he swing his eyes up to the vidscreen. _"There's too much risk for so little reward—whatever kind o' reward you an' Jim find in it—an' it's goin' to stop. Now. No more."_

Nyota nearly lurches forward on her cot to argue. NO! No he can't take this away from her, not when she's become so utterly stupid to actually _anticipate_, to get pleasure from finding these messages waiting for her, to look forward to something again! But all arguments are useless. He's somewhere out in space and she's on a frozen moon. Damn him! Damn him and damn Kirk and **damn Pike** to a cold abyss! He's reaching forward to turn off the recording and Nyota has to fight to keep from reaching out as well. If she were a lesser woman she would have.

_"Just watch yourself Uhura,"_ he mumbles. And then he's gone.

Nyota's entire face tightens, eyebrows and forehead furrowing, gaze narrows and lips pinching. She swallows hard a few times before the urge to scream dissipates, adding another layer to her repressed rage.

Very slowly she raises a thumb to press below her chin where his tiny scar still remains.

10

She does not have the technical capability nor the materials required to by-pass Enterprise wavelength security, thus even if she knew how to rip apart and delicately put together personal logs the process is too far a field for her to contemplate. Access to Pike's personal information is covered by his own captain's codes and, for Nyota, impossible to infiltrate. She will need help—there's no point in turning back and forgetting; Kirk and Len's veiled talk has become an obsession and Nyota cannot let her own life spin any further away from her like so much ship exhaust, so intangible she may as well throw herself out an airlock and forget any notion of a real career. She will discover what has kept her from her dream, but she will need help, and as she proceeds down the long hall towards Montgomery Scott's cabin she steels herself to acquiesce to whatever this 'help' may require.

Nothing and no one is free.

Her ponytail is high and her hair hangs down her back in one long sleek line, heels click sharp staccato beats along the metal floor and she's forced an extra sway into her hips; Nyota isn't blind, she knows she attractive to the opposite sex, and some men need to be given a look of eagerness right away. She thinks this will be the case with Scotty. There are no other crew cabins near his, in fact Scotty's room is completely separate from all other personal quarters. He sleeps down near the inadequate station engines and turbines, a constant pulse but no real power; it is incredibly warm in this section of the station especially in comparison to her cold little communications corner. The bastard.

She sighs and purposefully runs a hand over her breasts, down her stomach and over her hips. She's wearing her academy uniform and her legs may as well go all the way up to her neck. The addition of her agonizer and dagger holster are the only changes but Nyota believes the ensemble suits her purpose. The crew is wrapped up in layers 24/7. A little flesh would not be underappreciated, and now that she knows that Scotty's temperature controls actually work, said flesh isn't covered in goose bumps or twitching. At least not from the cold. _Shoulders back, chest out, head high. Don't smile._ She can't go overboard or he'll kill her on sight.

It is beyond unexplainable to come across his private door unlocked and Nyota's eyes widen, hand going directly for a weapon when it swishes open by the fact of her presence alone.

There is a red-haired naked Orion slowly massaging her breast in front of a rather impressively large computer consul. When she speaks her voice is like the sweetest heat rolling down Nyota's throat.

"That was fast. Did you find anything gelatinous?" Only then does the green woman turn towards the door and see that it is not whom she expected.

Nyota's too shocked to expect the horrible pain suddenly radiating from the small of her back, but Scotty did possess some skill with an agonizer after all. Nyota is booted forward, toppling to the floor as her knees give out from the pain rushing up and down her nervous system, tingling her fingers and making her body twitch. The door swishes shut and locks engage. The Orion comes to stand over her prone form while Scotty liberates Nyota from her weapons. "She's pretty," the red head smiles—all white teeth, a little leering and familiar—while caressing a hand over the Chief Engineers head. "Do we have to kill her?"


	4. Chapter 4

Her extremities tingle and involuntary spasms afflict ground zero on her back, but Nyota still finds it very short sighted of Scotty to simply restrain her wrists. Sure, his naked Orion is now examining her appropriated dagger but Nyota has other skills, one of which she demonstrates as the Chief Engineer laughingly leans forward to caress her exposed thigh--_"Ah luv, di'ya fancy yeself up for me?"_--only to receive a boot to the chin. It was not as hard as it should have been, not hard enough to save herself in an unfair fight—which this obviously is with Nyota prone on the floor and a nude woman currently straddling her upper body, cheek stinging from a revenge slap and head knocked akimbo, her arms positioned painfully underneath her—but Scotty complains as if she had just broken his jaw.

With his uninspired vocabulary Nyota wishes she had.

It is the Orion she must worry about and is quickly reminded by the sudden appearance of blood-red nails resting threateningly against her pressure-curled eyelashes.

"Why did you hurt Monty?" she purrs, eyes as sharp as any Nyota had seen in Starfleet. "Were you planning a seduction first? Were you going to tempt my man with those luscious lips? He likes lips you know." Nyota refrained from rolling her eyes. _He looks the type._ "Then, after he had climaxed in your body with all those interesting Terran colloquiums spilling from his mouth, would you have used that dagger on him? Slit that sweet little torso neck to navel and bathe in his blood? Are you tired of having to say 'Sir'?" As the Orion's nails ran deceptively gentle down once-declared sculpted cheekbones Nyota finally felt free to breathe, but didn't blink.

"I'm after his expertise, not his sex or his death. Frankly I find the idea of either is too much work at the moment."

The Orion's eyes glimmer and she quickly stands, giving Nyota quite a view of her shaved genitalia. Her hair is a beautiful tousled red wave and she looks over her shoulder with a spectacular grin.

"Sounds like we won't have to kill her Monty!"

Nyota is lifted off warm metal and placed almost civilly in a comfortably used chair. She tries not to imagine what her superior and this startlingly lovely green-skinned alien have done to each other exactly where she is sitting and instead, rather than come up with a reasonable lie that would clarify her presence, calmly explains exactly what she hopes to find by way of Scotty's computer skills. And pretends to ignore the whiff of musk. Apparently the thought of possible treason and staff liabilities—not to mention the public discovery of whatever it is the two of them do down here—is an aphrodisiac. She _does not_ mention Kirk. She _does not_ mention a medical officer by the name of Leonard McCoy. Some. . .secrecy must be maintained. As it is, with divulging Captain Christopher Pike as a believed antagonist it will not be long before those names are brought up in conversation between the pair and that's when Nyota will truly have to watch her back. Her mother would be disgusted.

She is pleased to return to her cold corner without any blood on her hands and two conspirators to do her ground work. They restored her weapons however. They did not name a price.

12

For someone who has always depended on perfection and professionalism is it becoming more difficult for Nyota to remain indifferent and austere. Kirk and Len's cryptic messages have become an obsession and she needs answers as badly as she needs to breathe, as badly as she utterly _longs_ for a marathon session with hot water or a surging power source or some actual intelligence to translate to keep her highly trained cerebral cortex from turning into a frozen mix of slush and juices. She has begun to hate the milling Andorians, with their blue flesh and rusty-razor teeth and bowing subservient nature that as far as her fresh paranoia is concerned is akin to a hungry wolf lying in wait. There have been murmurs and her behaviour has been noted.

Fucking great. The Empire is not a fair place, Nyota has never believed such fairy tales; but she does demand her due and this _banishment_ of her skills will not be allowed to remain fallow. Whatever the result she will find her answers.

Nyota is awakened by a quick kiss to her forehead and a firm pressure upon her wrists, all that keeps her legs from flailing or teeth from gnashing the Orion's distinct scent and female form. The men she's stationed with wouldn't be so stupid, Nyota vaguely ponders, giving this 'Gaila' a withering look. "It's the middle of the night."

"No smile for me, pretty?" the woman grins. She is wearing a paltry bikini but hundreds of goose bumps criss-cross along her green skin. Even with thermal sleepwear Nyota's still cold and she doesn't know how Gaila stands it. "You know, it's always night in space." Nyota is being watched so intently that she finally thinks the Orion intends to kiss her. She pushes against the hold.

"Get off me Gaila."

"You don't like me very much," a dancer's set of legs undulated across Nyota's bed sheets.

"I don't like what you're offering."

"And what would that be?" Gaila whispered, practically projecting a hardcore fantasy with her large eyes and full pout. Nyota shoves her off but with a grudging smirk. This was no time to make undue enemies and the woman _is_ delightfully exasperating. Of course some lessons must be taught and Nyota purposefully draws forth the dagger hidden beneath her pillow.

"Enough to keep me from my shift at oh six hundred." That seems to placate her and she bounces up and down excitedly within the constructed darkness, poking a rising Nyota happily in the shoulder, untroubled by the blade. The communications officer pushed the annoying hand away. "Is there a reason you've entered my quarters illegally?" Gaila made a satisfied noise and stretched.

"Oh pretty, you know all the right words." An exaggerated gesture of palming her breasts later and Gaila presents a shiny new data chip from the confines of her poor excuse for a bra. "And you'll learn I never disappoint." Nyota watched the little black square for all of a nanosecond before snatching it away, barely restraining herself from popping it immediately into her data console. Raising an eyebrow she purses her lips and turns the dagger's hilt in gentle circles within her grasp.

"What is it?" She doesn't ask how the Orion procured whatever information the chip contains as Scotty was more than willing to expound on the glories of Gaila's immense talents—both in and out of the bedroom. A technological genius schooled by the very same Empire sadists who abducted her from the Orion home world. Brilliant. The redhead leaned forward conspiratorially, beaming.

"I have noooo idea, some curly-cue and stamped gobbledy gook—"

"Hard copies?"

"Ya huh! Annnnnd also a few disintegrated _possibly_ scrambled vocal transmissions that I knew my linguist princess would just love to get her ears on." Gaila wiggled purposely where she sat. "And maybe her tongue around?" Nyota ignored the remark. She wouldn't be distracted. This was possibly a gold mine of information but it would be unwise to show any overt gratitude or pleasure in front of the alien female.

"Could you read it?"

"You know I can't," Gaila purred her disapproval, clicking her sharp nails together. "Why would I be here if **all** the work could be done between Monty and myself?" Nyota nodded slowly. Ah. Here was the crux of the matter. Gaila wanted to collect her due and was not so subtly pointing out that she found Nyota's part to be the lesser of their burdens. Perhaps. But Nyota's pride was rocked all the same, her gaze becoming decidedly unfriendly; instead of asking another politic question she went directly to the meat of the matter.

"You want off this moon."

"**We** want off this moon." Gaila's shark-like smile of glee—however infectious—didn't temper the linguist's mood. Three. . .beings involved instead of two. And even Scotty could have been taken care of if the situation called for it. It was the way of things, how the hierarchy worked in the Empire. Montgomery Scott and this alien Gaila were already traitors, and if Nyota was the one to present the intell she would probably be rewarded for the service. They would deserve whatever punishment the Emperor prescribed. Nyota lowered her voice considerably, a deep feeling of resentment present. She had been stupid to involve these outsiders and even moreso to suddenly have a guilty reaction to the idea of their torture and subsequent death at the hands of Empire security. Nyota knew nothing of them! She wasn't putting her own person in an agonizer booth for these strangers! She had spent four years in a psychological hell proving herself worthy to fly the skies and she refused to be tarnished It was—

It was stepping in to trip that bitch yeoman-track cadet all over again.

"And how do you expect me to accomplish the decampment of two Empire officer's and an alien sex slave?"

Greeted with silence, Nyota watched as Gaila bristled then turned her head away, her lovely cold shoulders dropping minutely before being shoved back almost violently.

"Since I don't exist here the question of my sudden disappearance should be moot." When she finally returned Nyota's bitter gaze her eyes were glassy and angry in her own right. "It's not as if I've ever mattered to _your_ kind."

Fucking great.

Nyota palmed the data chip, resisting the urges to either heave a sigh or pound the red head's perfectly symmetrical face into a bloody pulp. As if sensing her internal rage debate the Orion stood but Nyota placed her dagger on the floor behind her.

"If we were to start a fight we would make enough noise to call down the whole crew and I don't want any of those Andorians near my bed." It was enough to bring forth a giggle and Nyota didn't roll her eyes. She held up the chip. "I'll review the information and _then_ the three of us will discuss payment, agreed?"

"Sounds good," Gaila folded her arms. "You're being watched you know." Nyota jumped up, knees snapping up and flexing as if a phaser beam had just been fired in the area of her ass. The dagger was in it's proper place, in her determined grip. The Orion laughed huskily at her preparedness. "Not right now, pretty! Not by anyone but me now! But those Andorians. . ." She tsked and shook her head, magnificent locks bouncing. "They don't appreciate your Empire's occupation." There was an ironic laugh, then she regarded Nyota quizzically. "But I think it's more than that." Nyota lowered her blade. Her intuition had been correct. She wasn't going to share her concerns.

"How did you get in here?" She didn't expect the resulting emergence of incredulity.

"You have a door you know!"

"And it has a **very** strong security lock."

Gaila winked.

"See how useful I am."


	5. Chapter 5

13

There was a blade of some sort headed towards her back. Though her would-be assailant was light on their feet (not surprising once one considered the type of scurrying alien that occupied the frozen moon) they were careless, not unsheathing their weapon before proceeding upon this course of action, rather calculating their moment and only _then_ revealing Hell's grim fury, allowing the Ensign's highly trained ears and ever-present sense of survival to identify the tinny slide of metal. Nyota had less than a moment before the weapon met precious giving flesh below her ribcage, or, more likely given the nature of her outerwear, the delicate thin skin of her slender throat. There was no time to mentally curse at her ill-timed naivety but to simply continue walking down the poorly lit corridor and wait for the murderer to strike—this was no assassination, no promotion would occur through her death only the disposal of unwanted and assuredly lethal information.

She had been warned, felt her own hackles rise at the thought of the blue skinned beings whom had come to appear as ancient carnivorous monsters in her imagination, but the events of the morning and her actions therein had led to this encounter, and as she couldn't go back—wouldn't—Nyota had to come out the victor here and now. She had come too far to lose now.

She shifted to the left fast, throwing her arms up and angling her torso away from the long curved dirk that was built for penetration rather than slashing and was currently occupying the space her kidney had been mere seconds before. The Andorian hissed through his razor teeth—despite Empire propaganda the sexes were easily differentiated—and instead of making another stabbing motion like expected immediately made a grab for the dagger secured to her leg, intentions clear that he wished to unarm her before adding a selection of holes to her body. Nyota's knee rushed up to meet his face as her arm came down in a sharp chopping motion. Unfortunately instinct had made her raise the same leg the Andorian wanted, and as both actions made contact it gave him the backward momentum to rip the band off and throw her protection back down the hallway from where they came.

There was no time to stand and wait for his next attack; Nyota jumped forward with another kick, kneecap, kneecap, solar plexus, but the Andorian evaded, fast on his feet and not appearing to search for a retreat. His dirk came forward—the shining item much nicer than anything Nyota would have thought to find among the workers possessions—forcing her to move back. Her coat was a noticeable impediment, an added weight where the Andorian had none but she doubted he would give her time to remove it. This wouldn't do. If Nyota hoped to have any chance of retaliation she would need to get in close to the bastard and that meant the very definite risk of a punctured organ.

Scotty and Gaila would be waiting for her in transport with the safety gear if the engineer and Orion could be trusted at this point. If not then there were only two possible scenarios Nyota could picture: either the couple had beamed out alone, or, like herself, they were defending themselves against Andorian co-conspirators. At least that was whom Nyota felt she was fighting, an Andorian under the influence and thumb of one Captain Christopher Pike.

14

_Before_

She works on Gaila's contraband data files late at night much as she had watched Kirk's vids, door triple locked and blanket wrapped around her shoulders to keep out the bone-deep cold. Her mind feels open again for the first time in almost two years as she devours the broken distorted fragments, letting her education come to the fore-front of her exceptional mind to transcribe and memorize. It is Romulan in nature—Nyota works too closely day in day out with records of her Empire's combatants to **not** recognize the thick structured strokes—however the essence of the message evades her. It is a supremely frustrating process when the majority of what she can decipher is no more than greetings and small talk. . .And gems? Minerals?

"_Romlastha_," she whispers to herself, sometimes repeatedly, rolling the vowels slowly and staring a firey hole through her console screen. Her layers of rage have morphed into the desire found in self-righteous indignation. The presence of a communiqué between Pike and some Romulan agent is enough proof to pass on to Empire superiors if Nyota only wished to cast dispersion on the Captain's illustrious career, if all she wished was to see the Captain reprimanded or _possibly_ transferred. (She doubts this extreme would happen in any event; Pike did not become Captain without garnering many friends in high places, and all she currently has is suspicion, not even the credible appearance of Pike's name—though she would bet her front teeth the block-lettered Romulan 'C' refers to none other than the merciless Captain.) No, none of this truly matters any more.

Nyota needs to find what she what not supposed to see.

_Romlastha_ alone is not damning. There are numerous knowledgeable translators employed by the Emperor for the specific purpose of translating Romulan messages—the Terran Empire and the Romulan Empire have been warring too long for this calling to be overlooked—and while she is conversant in all three dialects this alone could not keep her from the flagship if Pike were afraid of her xenolinguistic abilities.

Nyota's duties suffered minimally. Not in quantity, no no never that, but as she delved deeper into the syntax, piecing words and sentences together from the corrupted hard copies, her paid work became more wearisome, more unsatisfying than it had ever been, and—though minimal—this dereliction was noticed. It was brought to her CO's attention.

_"Ye cannae go—go—Och Christ Gaila! Don't stop! Yea, yea. . .Ye cannae go woolgathering Uhura, not at this juncture!"_ Nyota had stood in his quarters, arms folded, averting her eyes while Gaila rode Scotty like a pony. Perhaps it was the couple but she did not find their coitus half as spellbinding. Janice Rand would have said she had yet to form an emotional attachment. Nyota would have responded that her psychobabble was ridiculous and that there was no room for attachment in the Empire—as well Janice knew. Nyota had no attachments. But there were no more behavioural reports brought to Scotty's notice.

_It shouldn't be so difficult!_ The thought is unreasonable of course. She is a xenolinguist, not a trained code breaker, and with the terrible state of these files there is definitely more code than report about them. That does not stop Nyota from finding ways to curse or blame herself in some small way. She has yet to listen to the scrambled transmissions—refuses to in fact, like a punishment she presses upon herself for not discerning the initial Romulan messages. In a fit of experimental desperation Nyota places five pieces of script together like some ancient puzzle, and, with a dash of her stylus, sends the section twirling upon her console vidscreen. _What would the Romulans want with a Captain of the Empire? Besides unconditional surrender. Besides a first class war ship—like Pike would ever_ give_ the Enterprise over to the Romulans._ She sighs and rubs her eyes. _What would a Praetor want with him? No, no, fuck! I'm not asking the right questions!_

Looking back down on her console, Nyota gives a start and ever so slowly smiles. Rather than the vertical block writing of _Romlastha_ she has been focusing on, she is suddenly staring at disjointed horizontal script. The mind boggles! Her enthusiasm is renewed. Smoothing a jagged edge here, curving rather than abruptly stopping a line there: Nyota leans back on her cot and cannot help the maniacal grin that threatens to split her face in half. It is absurd to be outwardly happy at the information she has just stumbled upon, but that is exactly what draws Nyota to a pique of smugness. The _Romlastha_ had been interwoven with another written language and she cannot believe the fish-bone-in appearance script was made to fit so seamlessly with the Romulan. _Genius. Utter genuis._

As admiration fades away however, concern sits in. It is clearly Andorian script she has deciphered which has several conotations that need considering. Are Pike and his Romulan contact purposely using Andorian to conceal their intent? Is it Pike alone creating this "double language" to outwit Empire transcribers? _"You're being watched you know."_ Nyota pulls her blanket tighter around her slim form. She had known, had felt it. . .

What if there was no Romulan contact at all? What if there was merely Pike and thousands of Andorian rebels?

15

Gritting her teeth and hissing like a scalded cat, Nyota reached forward and lunged at her attacker. He was cagey, aware, and there was no time to wait him out in a vain hope for help—there was clearly none. He was prepared for this little coup and she most certainly wasn't, but that didn't mean Nyota was without options. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and in the flicker of a moment, while the Andorian's dirk went through the flesh of her outer thigh, Nyota screamed and ripped off the man's two antennae. Resin-like blue blood splashed her face as the Andorian dropped like a stone, his body a mass of convulsions whilst his internal equilibrium short-circuited, and she watched with deep panting breaths his legs jiggle and shake against the floor, a blue smear below his mutilated head.

It wasn't until he stopped moving that Nyota realized she still held his antennae within her white-knuckled fists. She dropped them quickly and hurried towards the transporter room without a backward glance, her Terran red blood rolling down her leg with each painful step.

16

_Before_

"Where do you come from?"

Nyota glances sharply at Gaila, caught off guard, before returning to her translation. Now that the languages have been determined and several distortions have been linked, Nyota must use her considerable talents to decide what exactly it is that Pike or his contact is trying to say. She does not like Gaila's question and is thus vague.

"I'm a Terran, Gaila. You know that."

The Orion makes a moue of disappointment then scuffs her bare feet on Nyota's floor—even the green woman's toe nails are red. . .but this is a fact that should not bear notice. Gaila meanders around Nyota's small quarters; it is something else the Ensign does not like but there is no point in ordering the annoyance away now when Nyota had practically welcomed her earlier. Nyota _hadn't_ drawn a weapon after all. But the woman is obviously bored and shows it in her petulant tone.

"Then tell me about Terra, pretty! Tell me about **you**!" She flounced back over to the cot and shook out her hair. "If Monty's right about that abandoned hunk of space trash headed this way, the three of us will need to feel comfy quickly. We'll be there for a while." Nyota had been surprised when the Orion had come offering free intel, gathered by herself and Scotty, information Nyota had believed she would have to miraculously garner if the three of them were ever to leave this frozen moon. Apparently the fuck buddies had done their own homework: there was an unoccupied craft heading towards the moon's atmospheric space. All life control functions were offline, there was no sign of engine power, but, as apparently Scotty had said, it wasn't all bad. He could fix it. Eventually. Nyota didn't know which was worse: an indeterminable amount of time on a confined vessel in dead space, or the rest of her life (as short as it may very well be) on the station looking over her shoulder.

"There's not much to tell," she mutters, absentmindedly biting her stylus. She is stuck on a verb and would rather focus on that than giving Gaila any more power over her. _Throw? Shove?_ "I grew up, I left. And now I'm here." The green woman suddenly, inexplicably, cuddles into her side. If she thought Nyota was going to share her wrappings she was crazy. "Get off me." Gaila rubs her chin into Nyota's shoulder and the Ensign rolls her eyes while the Orion not so subtly smells her.

"Then tell me about your lovers, how they touched you and moved you again and again," she purrs before dropping her head unceremoniously onto Nyota's back with a groan. "You never stop reading! Great Goddess, don't you know what those warlords of yours are up to yet?! You need to dig us out of this rut!" Nyota's brow creases in a flare of indignant anger, ready to finally start that fight and break the status quo. She coils herself to give the Orion a push off her bed when her eyes widen and dart back to the padd. Dig. DIG!

"Christ Gaila, that's it!"

Now it's Nyota's turn to pace, in fact it's frantic, and her expression travels wildly between excitement of discovery and hopeless despair. To whom can she send this sort of intelligence? By the time the Emperor receives it Nyota, Gaila, and Scotty will be dead; all that will result is Pike's torture and subsequent death for stealing from the Empire--_if_ the message reaches the correct hands—and then the Empire would absorb all the illegal credits. _No. It wouldn't be illegal then. They would just take it._

"What is it?"

"Digging Gaila!" Nyota shoves the padd under her pert green, calling up other translated sections. It's painful to keep her voice a whisper through gritted teeth. "Pike and the Andorians are _mining_ dilithium and pocketing the profits!" She has spent too much time searching for a Romulan connection. There's no safety in screaming or crying and there isn't time even if it was. "Pike must have been doing this for years!" She needs to listen to the audio transmission **now!** "Get up! Go watch a vid or something!"

Nyota situates herself on Gaila's vacated spot and gets to work removing the heavy distortion layered upon the supposedly scrambled audio. The volume of her ear piece is on the highest level, the static almost deafening, but it cannot be helped; not a nuance can be lost or scrapped as sub-space radiation. She's listening for spoken Romulan now; it's virtually impossible for a Human tongue to produce the extra vowels and consonants required in Andorian speech patterns—God knows _she_ can't do it, and if she can't there's no way in hell Pike can—but traditional Romulan is a first year Starfleet course, mandatory in many tracks, and if the Captain and the Andorians are writing it Nyota will bet they'll be speaking it.

It's like peeling Terran vegetables, scraping away the rubbish until what's left is delicious and whole, and as night turns into the early hours of the morning what Nyota finds _is_ orally delicious and completely unanticipated. It's not traditional Romulan. It's High Romulan, the language of the Praetors. And, like the _Romlastha_, it's not alone.

Nyota's exhausted when she finally looks up from her bent position—and can't believe she was so stupid as to leave Gaila to her own devices for so long.

Jim is giving it to Len on the console, the volume turned down and Gaila practically embracing the screen, head dipped close to hear the successive grunts and moans that Nyota knows off by heart, and a green hand reaching out to caress the bruised image of Jim's bare back. Nyota's jaw tightens as Len comes. She hasn't watched these tapes in a while.

"I think he's very delicate," Gaila murmurs as Nyota approaches the Orion's place on the floor. Nyota knows Gaila isn't speaking of the doctor but she still chokes out a laugh. It doesn't sound happy.

"He likes redheads."

"You hurt the other very deeply, didn't you? Yet. . .they both worry for you."

_We hurt each other._ The words are on Nyota's tongue but she cannot say them. It would mean guilt. It would mean regret. To admit either threatens all forms of stability. Instead she snaps the console off and sighs deeply.

"Is it possible to get a personal message to a Flagship undetected?"

". . .Like these men have sent to you?"

"Focus Gaila! A message from here to a Warp-8 Empire Flagship undetected. Can it be done?" The Orion's lips curl and she looks Nyota slowly. In the broader scheme of the universe, it's a wonder Nyota has yet to succumb to Gaila's charms, and she knows it.

"What did you find in that transmission **I** located for you?"

"Pike's using _Romlastha_ as a base Gaila, but I don't think there are any Romulans involved," she looks at her padd with a quizzical expression. "It may mean nothing at all but there's Vulcan interwoven with the High Romulan—"

"I'm hearing a lot of blah blah blah."

"Well how about this then," Nyota rears up, giving Gaila a hard poke in the arm and pointing viciously at the screen. "_Mister Delicate_ may be able to use this and right now—" Oh Christ she wants to throw up and wants to scream and can do neither. "—he's the only way I can see of bringing down Pike and keeping my career in the Empire!" It shouldn't be that important and she somehow thinks that Gaila is justified in regarding her as if Ceridwen tentacles are slowly creeping through her long ebony locks, but it **is** important, it has always been important, and Nyota still wants her due.

17

She had to slow down once the hallway to the transporter room was reached. Not only does her leg hurt like a son-of-a-bitch there are three more dead Andorians in various splayed positions and phaser fire burns on the wall. Since there seems to be no sign of physical combat Nyota can only assume that Scotty and Gaila were more prepared than she and had enough sense to collect the curved dirks after their attackers fell—something that a now weapon-less Nyota wished she had had the presence of mind to do. However, it isn't everyday that one rips an actual appendage from a living breathing being so the Ensign is willing to cut herself a minimum of slack. She won't dwell. Can't.

Leaving space between herself and the blue hands, outstretched in final supplication to the beyond, Nyota traversed the hallway and tentatively pressed her side against the transporter door. It was locked. She clenched her jaw and, with surreptitious looks over her shoulder, began to whisper.

"Gaila! Gaila, are you there?" There was blood soaking into the insulating fibres of her boot. "Scotty? I—"

Her head jerked up, and in the passing of moments Nyota felt her heart stop cold and choking and start again at the speed of streaming neurons. There is the heavy, dull, hammer of possibly hundreds of angry alien feet headed her way from somewhere on the station and the time for secret motivation is at an end.

"Open the door!"

Beating her hands against the unyielding material, a horrible rush of thought flies through Nyota's head. They've left her. _She's_ figured out the incendiary messages. _Her_ name would be the only one connected to it all. She's helped Scotty and Gaila achieve their dream of escape and taken on all the viable risk herself--**Fuck!**

"SCOTTY! OPEN THE GODDAMNED DOOR!"

There's a beep and a screech of rusty sliders, but the door opened like a mythological cave and Gaila's green arm splattered blue shot out to haul Nyota inside. She's about to start in on the pair, but neither the Orion nor the engineer own appearances of satisfaction. They looked desperate. "What is it?" she panted, thankful for the barrier closing behind her. Gaila moved to engage the locking mechanism as Scotty shook his head from behind the controls. It takes Nyota a second to see the slaughtered Andorian behind the console.

"The blue bastards 'ave ruined everythin'! Transporter capabilities are offline—"

"Then fix it—"

"It cannae it done! Christ, d'ye nae listen?!" Nyota is stopped by the CEO's vehemence and Gaila's restraining hand. The man was enraged, his face an inferno. "They've shut down central heatin' which'll mean the end o' our poor wee human bodies soon enough and—and Gaila—" Nyota watched him watch the green woman—who wore a long hooded cloak over not much else—then brush a hand through his sparse hair. "We've no access to engineerin' or life support an' they've murdered those poor sots up on Platform 6. . ." Ah. The poor excuse for security guards that doubled as zookeepers towards the Andorian masses, agonizers ever ready. There was little sympathy to be felt.

Oxygen tanks and survival suits had been dropped in the corner, now worthless. Just like their chance of escape. She heard a gasp and Gaila's hand tightened around her wrist.

"Your leg. Uhura you're—"

Nyota shrugged her aside and limped over to Scotty with a barely contained scowl and cold sweat running down her back.

"What _do_ we have then?"

He grimaced and smacked his hand down bitterly on the console as the sound of thumping feet escalated.

"Communications operatin' to adequate efficiency if ye'd like to send out a last will an' testament." Gaila gave a rather creative homeland curse and hauled out a phaser and bloodied dirk from beneath her cloak, bracing herself alongside the door.

"Don't say that! I can't believe you'd say that!"

"Well what d'ya want me to do?!"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Nyota punched at the controls, opening all frequencies. "Code AAO, all Empire spacecraft—"

"Are ye outta yer mind?!" Alpha Alpha Omega was a distress call, and in the Empire was akin to pleading mercy from ravenous dogs catching the scent of fear. "It's nae like there's anyone out there but—"

"We've run out of options," Nyota stated, placing a palm firmly on the console as she began to lose feeling in her hip. Her leg could give out at any moment. The three of them jerked as one as a war cry echoed outside and Nyota knew the first wave of Andorians was coming down the hall. "Transfer what power you can! We're going to die anyway. Here it's a certainty but I'd rather hedge my bets on a possibility than give up entirely!"

The door shook with the vibrations of several moving objects and the pounding simply continued, the roar of combined voices in an alien tongue enough to scramble Nyota's already frayed senses. _No! No, you have to do __**something!**_ She reached out with her free hand and pulled Scotty to the console. "DO IT!" She didn't watch him configure wires, instead she continued her open transmission while Gaila prepared for Armageddon at the door.

"All Empire spacecraft, respond! Code AAO. Code AAO. All Empire spacecraft, respond!" Sparks appeared out of nowhere on the upper left portion of the door. "Respond! RESPOND—!" A crackle of static and then a voice sounded as clear as a bell.

"Substation Juno III, this is _I.S.S Enterprise_ responding to a Code AAO—"

"Christ man!" Scotty shouted. "Get us the hell outta here!"

"Shut up!"

"Substation Juno III, we've been ordered to affect transport for one Lieutenant Uhura. Please confirm."

She knew that Scotty and Gaila were sharing looks but Nyota refused to debate semantics at a time like this.

"Uhura here. Transport for three Enterprise."

"We have orders for only one Lieu—"

"Transport for three **right now** Enterprise or there won't be a body for your Captain to question you about!" She gestured violently for Gaila to come away from the door. "That's **my** order!"

"But Lieutenant—"

A section of the door bent in precariously and cry of success rose up with it. The structure wouldn't stand another minute under such a barrage.

"Now Enterprise!"

". . .Yes Lieutenant. Life signs locked, prepare three to beam up."

**"NOW!!"**

The door crashed open and in rushed a sea of blue.


	6. Chapter 6

18

_**"NOW!!"**_

As her cells and neural pathways reconstitute themselves upon the large transporter pad, Nyota's leg gives out beneath her and she falls down hard, dizzy from blood loss and the sudden shift in equilibrium. She hears Gaila and Scotty panting on either side of her, feels the heat build under her heavy outfit, and knows they have actually made it on to the Enterprise, knows they **all** have avoided certain death at the hands of a renegade army of indentured Andorians. She has to fight to force her eyes open and the larger realistic side of Nyota understands why: she does not know what sort of reception they will receive, nor whom has come to receive them.

". . .it look like she's bleeding?"

"Yes Captain."

"Oh. Then contact sick bay and tell them to get a stretcher down here."

"Yes Captain."

She takes a shaky breath and looks up in time to see Jim Kirk begin to hover, an amused grin on his tanned face as he watches her struggle to remain conscious. She believes she must be dying because Kirk appears to be wearing captain-gold. He speaks to her broadly, clearly, uncaring of those who hear, and why should he? She's the one who is in a heap on the pad.

"Well this is awkward Lieutenant. I gave orders for transporting one communications officer, not one communications officer and her entourage."

"Err ah 'scuse me Sir but I'm—"

"Shut up. Sulu?"

"Captain."

"Escort these two down to the brig. I'll begin interrogations in my own good time."

There is motion to her left and Nyota knows the Scot and Orion are being hauled away. Will she see them again? Would it have been better to die fighting aliens instead of cowed into submission by Empire goons? _Don't turn philosophical on me Uhura. Survival is the name of the game and that's what you've done!_ She didn't have the strength to be arguing with herself. Kirk's voice was further away. "As soon as the Lieutenant is patched up put her in the bo. . ."

_Nyota wakes screaming. There is no moment between utter blackness and flashing lights, between sweet oblivion and complete sensory responsiveness. She has no understanding of time or space: is she still on the Enterprise? Has she been kept unconscious long enough for her treasonous investigations to be reported? Has she been brought back to Earth to face torture at the hands of the Emperor? These are only vague thoughts and images that shoot through her skull and are quickly swallowed by the surges zipping along and though sinew and muscle and nerve ending, destroying what feels like every last inch of her. Her limbs spasm and she can't feign indifference even if she wants to. This machine, whatever it is Nyota is in, has been created to inflict the greatest amount of pain possible._

She's in a bath tub, arms splayed out over the ceramic sides to prevent her from drowning, and the excess of warm, sweet water is novelty enough to momentarily forget about her previous agony, her banishment on the edge of the Neutral Zone, those blue bastards crying for her blood. Her body is relaxed, almost languid, her naked thighs bobbing and free of shock and spasm. . .then someone clears their throat and, eyes still closed, she grimaces.

"Wake up sleeping beauty."

There is no rancour in the voice. Speaking gently and with understanding, it is a familiar voice but not the one she most desires to hear. Nyota blinks away the hazyness of sleep and adjusts her seat as she stares across into the bright blue eyes of Jim Kirk. They aren't exactly what she remembers; that youthful spark that filled them while attending the Academy, that so arrogantly claimed Nyota would one day be on _his_ bridge crew, is gone. He's still arrogant of course. It's his youth. If Jim Kirk was ever innocent it's no longer present in his gaze. She wasn't imagining it: he wears a Captain's gold vest and that speaks volumes as it concerns her deliberation. Nyota inhales deeply and is mildly surprised that she feels no ache. Had she been dreaming that torture as well?

"What are you doing to me Kirk?"

"Treating you better than your irrationality deserves." He pauses then laughs loudly, as if his words remind him of something or someone else. Nyota isn't amused but merely rolls her eyes; from her position it is impossible to complain. He notices and clicks his tongue, reaching over to the platter of fruit--_actual fruit_--that she suddenly notices placed on the counter below a large mirror. The bathroom is huge. "C'mon Uhura!" he shakes his head good-naturedly; admiring her gumption but ultimately thinking her foolish? Perhaps. "What's with the baggage? I got **you** out of that hell hole, not you plus two!" Nyota regards him pop a raspberry in his mouth and chuckle. Christ, when had she last enjoyed fresh fruit? Well, as close to fresh as can be found out in the black of space. God knows there wasn't any to be found on the substation.

"Will you let me explain or have you already killed them?" Kirk tilts his head.

"That green chick's an Orion you know." And his smile has Nyota moving forward and up, something dark clenching inside, until she takes visible notice of her bare chest and slips back beneath the perfumed bathwater, pressing herself to the side of the tub. Is he fucking with her or has something bad really happened? Who is she kidding? The important question is how to approach this, how much information to reveal. She fears that once again the answer will be everything. Her voice is calm and controlled though.

"She's a genius. They haven't invented a security system that she can't hack her way through."

"She's hot." Nyota ignores him.

"Scott was my superior officer, the Chief Engineer—"

"Yeah I have one of those."

"Not like Montgomery Scott you don't. He's the reason I didn't freeze to death."

Jim leaned forward, tossing a wash cloth into the water. Another little luxury, but then moving from Juno III to the flagship of the Empire was a rather large step. Like moving from whipping boy to captain.

"Is that where your loyalties lie Lieutenant?"

"We helped each other," Nyota refuses to look away. "And they deserve better than death at the hands of your bodyguards."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?"

This wasn't going well. He was waiting for her to admit to something she couldn't even admit to herself. . .but the thought of Gaila being _used_, of being passed around, of ending up with the exact sort of humanity the green female had alluded to over and over again as the basest form of life—Why did it suddenly bring her back to a time when a foot purposefully placed had almost meant her death? Nyota picks up the soggy material and passes it in front of her chin, returning to her original position at the back of the tub. There is a subtle scent of gardenias mixed with an alien spice of which she has no knowledge. It's not unwelcome. She rubs it over her skin.

"Can't a lady bathe in peace?"

It's an apple he reaches for now, thoroughly amused.

"Oh a _lady_ can do whatever she wants." Crunch. "That tag on your ass begs to differ though."

Her frown is fast and fierce, as if her face had been literally dissolved by anger.

"And how long after I sent you all the facts did you decide it was time to kill your way to the top?"

It's a stupid thing to say, stupid to remark on, but she couldn't hold it back, and as she watches Kirk swallow, his Adam's apple slide up and down, Nyota thinks it may just be the straw to break the camel's back. Oh well. She certainly isn't going to offer to suck his dick in attempt to smooth it all over. Her rage is still present—she's nursed it for too long to wipe the slate clean—but Nyota **wants** to live, and for some reason Jim Kirk has wormed himself into her survival arc. It's part of what made her keep those vids. It's what made her enjoy watching the man's ass as he made Len pant and writhe. Len. She doesn't **want** to hate Kirk. . .but it's hard. He draws out chewing his apple.

"Not all the facts sister. Green's totally your colour by the way."

Nyota lets the soft material drop onto her left shoulder, edging resting over the swell of her breast.

"I'm naked in your bathroom—"

"I've noticed." He winks and she once again ignores him.

"What did you do to me?"

"What I had to."

They are still trying to stare each other down when a chime rings, (the chimes here are more pleasant than those she's lived with on the substation), proclaiming someone is requesting entrance into the Captain's suite. Before Nyota's eyes can truly harden Kirk smiles and drops his apple core onto the platter, wiping his hands on the thighs of his nice tight black pants, and stands, shooting her a grin. "Company's coming."

19

_After_

They are pressed together on Kirk's big bed, clean sheets beneath them, chin to temple, his big doctor's hands that say he's oh so skilled and will cut you if you disagree clamped upon her waist as he thrusts up into her core that's been _aching_ for him for so long: Len attacked her first and for that Nyota is very, very grateful because she wasn't so brave and couldn't have reached out to him in front of Kirk, no matter her own desires. And she has desires. The hot wet of his mouth is a hard suction around her breast, a flick of tongue and teeth and if she was any softer Nyota would cry because it's perfect and had always been perfect and not once had she ever told him. She settles for rocking insistently on his lap, using her weight to grind down, and holds on to that breezy hair or his freckled arms or whatever of him she can touch and keep.

Jim Kirk is watching from his chair, cock in hand, stroking and unhurried. He's Captain and it has its perks. And if Nyota and Leonard decided to climb up inside each other in his room, on his bed, then he was taking front row tickets. That was fine. As long as he stayed away from what Len was building between her thighs, Nyota would not make demands.

She wants Len to touch her but that would mean releasing his grip, he would have to stop squeezing and she can't bear the thought. Nyota's chin rubs against his forehead in the jostling and then she does something unforgivably intimate by pressing her open lips to the deep furrow that pervades his stubborn brow and then just holding on, unable to continue the trek she wants to take to the pinch of crow's feet at the corner of his eyes and the scowl creases around his mouth. What is it about this man that threatens all her walls?! It's not fair! It's not—

He notices her almost-pause—she can't let him stop, she **won't** let him stop—and before Nyota can get too lost in his concerned gaze she whispers _"Kiss me"_ on a panting breath because Kirk knows too much already and she just wants something that is **hers** in the short time she can clam it. He complies without argument and those lips that know hers so well and work her body like an instrument are focused and deliciously firm, and Nyota comes with a groan against his mouth because she can't cry and she can't shout and all she wants to do is breathe him in. Len's fingers knead and he bites her plump bottom lip--_his_ bottom lip—so incredibly gently when he empties himself inside her body.

Nyota hears Kirk jerking off, the wet click speeding up as he finishes with a grunt, and, with the Captain's momentary distraction in trying to breathe, she places a kiss along the strong tendon of Len's throat before abruptly shifting her legs and moving off his thighs, leaving the bed.

20

She holds her head high walking down the corridor from Kirk's new Captain's quarters dressed only in the man silk night robe. Nyota hadn't found it as funny as he, the idea of making her leave in the buff; if she had been of weaker constitution he probably could have forced the issue quite easily—if he was the tyrant Pike had been her refusal would be a non-issue because she would not have been allowed an opinion even in the privacy of his room. In the end both she and Len were unamused (Len for obvious other reasons currently directed at Nyota and not just her precarious state of undress nor Kirk's asinine attitude) and by vigour of their combined glares reluctantly handed over his own clothing and directions on how to find her quarters. It seems that they weren't far away from her present location.

The Enterprise was shiny and modern and cold by virtue of it's reputation and abilities and not because icicles grew along it's exposed skeleton. It was a mechanical wonderland compared to where she had come from and despite everything Nyota tasted pride on her tongue. It was most likely misplaced but it couldn't be helped: she was where she had always wanted to be. Finally.

When she approaches her door Nyota is pleased to see that it operates on both a fingerprint identification and vocal verification capacity as well as a code she is prompted to create for herself, and is intrigued the computer already has the first two programmed into the system. It would have been better to be suspicious, but, as her thoughts are still meandering around Kirk's bed and how impossible it is to encourage one's heart in the Empire, Nyota senses nothing until she steps over the threshold and is confronts the strange male slowly straightening his spine from his former bent position over her nondescript, yet nonetheless comfortable in appearance, blue sofa. There was a uniform delicately laid out--_her uniform_--requisite pieces for women designed by paranoid and misogynistic men. Nyota locks her jaw and quickly reaches for the dagger hidden in her boot. It's a rote gesture, as natural as breathing, and it takes her all of a second to remember that there are no boots and there are no daggers. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

The Vulcan is silent in his observation, his features what humans would describe as mask-like but to her are known as simply an appearance of fact. She has learned that they are emotionless; she has learned that they are physically stronger than Terrans; she has learned that they are bloodthirsty and resentful; she has learned that they are a despised and conquered race. She **knows** that the late Captain Pike used a distorted mix of Romulan and Vulcan in his coded messages to his Andorian counterpart; to have a Vulcan on the Enterprise is too much of a coincidence to wonder long about whom it was exactly that translated and scribed those messages on Pike's end.

Why has Kirk kept him alive and what the fuck is he doing in her room?

Unlike most of the men of her acquaintance, the Vulcan in impeccably groomed, his black hair sleek and his facial hair neat and his clothes unruffled. His long sleeved shirt is a shiny blue material, unnerving in it's similarity to the shade of her furniture—so close that she purposely ignores the thought as soon as it passes through her skull—and is adorned with several gold pins, stating rank of some sort. So does the gold sash around his waist. Nyota squares her shoulders and cautiously stands at attention, her face and voice betraying none of the shiver that is beginning in her spine.

"These are my private quarters. Sir."

She would have, should have, spoken his mother tongue but her Vulcan is . . .imperfect. . . and embarrassment is not the order of the day.

"Yes Lieutenant Uhura, I was indeed aware of that fact."

His words are precise with little to no inflection, almost sarcastic if he even knew the word. Nyota doesn't question how he knows her name, however his sudden defensive stance of hands behind his back and perusing gaze is ridiculous. Surely he's seen women wearing men's clothes before.

But perhaps not the Captain's?

"Sir?"

"Commander, Lieutenant. Commander." His 'sarcasm' gone, the Vulcan was still precise in his annoyance. "As First Officer of the Enterprise I will be addressed as such."

Fucking great.

She doesn't move as the alien approaches and he doesn't look her in the eye, instead at a place beyond her shoulder. "You are assigned to Alpha shift at oh eight hundred. I suggest you spend the remaining time in preparation." To Nyota's consternation he does not leave right away but rather tilts his head ever so slightly and takes in one deep audible breath before stepping out into the hallway. Nyota stiffens and counts to five before ordering the door locked. Puzzled and feeing a sharp injection of fear wiggle it's way inside, Nyota shakes her head furiously and allows herself to give in to exhaustion, discovering a bed further back in it's own alcove. She's been stabbed and practically electrocuted and reunited with her former lover for one sweet moment and she cannot take any more. The quarters are larger than what she shared with Janice in the Academy, _much_ larger than what she had on the substation, but there is no energy left to investigate presently.

Nyota will search out listening devices when she returns from her shift tomorrow. No doubt her laundry was not the only reason for the **Commander's** presence.

21

_Before_

Hearing Len argue with Kirk brings a small smile to Nyota's face that is threatening to become a whimper as she had almost given up on hearing the Doctor's voice ever again. She sits and soaks and silently listens while Len rants and curses and Kirk responds with an undercurrent of laughter; apparently Leonard McCoy had had a trying day. He sounds incredibly angry and Nyota would not be surprised to learn he had dipped into his whiskey, that is if he still keeps a bottle handy.

"Damnit Jim, first it was your hobgoblin on Deck Four with O' Rielly—he probably won't be able to say his own name for months!—and then it was—" Nyota hears him clear his throat. Twice. When Len resumes his anger is heightened but his voice is low and full of more gravel than she last remembered. _Has he. . .has he been crying?_ Impossible. Never. "You beam up the Walking Stomach and your little slave girl—"

"Hot isn't she."

"She's a trained killer Jim! Christ, Sulu's out for blood after the mess she made of his face! How the hell did she get a weapon into the brig?!" Nyota closes her eyes briefly, savouring Gaila's victory before falling back on revenge concerns. From Kirk's sudden laugh there seems to be no need. There was admiration in his tone and Nyota wants to slap him for his earlier manipulation. Neither Scotty nor Gaila are dead. Not yet. By the sound of it the Orion is handling things just fine.

"Guess next time he'll think about spitting on Tubby's sandwich."

Len is not comforted and curses again.

"Stop it. Just stop with your Goddamn jokes—"

"Watch it Bones."

"No screw you!" There's a thump and Nyota believes Len just punched the wall. "_She_ sends out the distress signal—I found that out in the damn logs!—and you beam up those two bastards then blow up the Goddamn moon!"

**That** has Nyota sitting up in the bath, scented water splashing over the side.

"You blew up the moon?!"

There's a pregnant pause and then Kirk yells back.

"Yeah. Called it an early birthday present to myself."

His words are still forming as Len stops his run, standing in the doorway and staring at Nyota in disbelief. She licks the inside of her bottom lip and feels a tremble in her arms.

"Hi Len."

"I thought she was dead." Len's expressive eyes are on her but she knows he's still talking to Kirk. There is more strain to his face, more emotional baggage that Nyota won't ask about. "I thought those Andorian savages. . ."

Len comes to Nyota with all the finesse of a Klingon executioner and lifts her out of the water with one hand to the back of her neck, showing strength that she has only been able to dream about, fantasies while she watches Kirk's black and white home movies.

"Len—"

There are no words as he attacks her mouth with every bit of passion Nyota needs.


End file.
